Day of Reckoning
by heisey
Summary: The squad investigates a series of armored truck robberies, with unexpected results.
1. Chapter 1

**Day of Reckoning**

_Chapter One _

_Thursday_

"What the – " Claude Franklin muttered as he brought the armored truck to a stop in front of the "detour" sign.

Jerry Crandall, riding shotgun next to him, consulted their run sheet. "There's nothin' about a detour here," he said.

"Lemme see," Franklin demanded, grabbing the sheet.

"Let's call it in," Crandall suggested. "Maybe they got some new info."

"Nah, it's gotta be bogus, we just left ten minutes ago. You know our orders – ignore any detours or road closings that aren't on there," Franklin said, indicating the run sheet. "I'm going around."

"OK, I guess," Crandall said doubtfully.

Franklin steered the armored truck around the "detour" sign and drove down the deserted street in lower Manhattan. Near the end of the first block, he skidded to a stop, barely avoiding running over a prone figure in the roadway in front of him. "Shit," Crandall exclaimed, opening the passenger side door and sprinting toward the person lying in the street.

"Dammit, Jerry, get back here," Franklin yelled. "We're not supposed to stop or get out for anything, you know that. Look out!"

His warning came too late. As the man lying in the street jumped to his feet, holding a semi-automatic pistol in his gloved hand, two black-clad figures, wearing masks, suddenly appeared from behind a parked car. One of them ran toward Crandall, firing an assault rifle. Crandall collapsed to the ground, then lay still, a pool of blood spreading around him on the pavement.

Franklin scrabbled across the front seat of the armored truck in a desperate attempt to close the passenger-side door, but he was too late, again. The second black-clad figure reached the passenger side of the truck before he could close the door. He sprayed the interior of the truck with multiple rounds from his assault rifle. Franklin fell across the seat, dead. The masked man reached into Franklin's jacket pocket and removed his keys. He and his confederate quickly opened the rear of the armored car and removed the money sacks, stuffing them into several large duffel bags. A black van, driven by the third man, pulled out from the curb halfway down the block. The two men threw the duffel bags into the back and climbed in after them. The van drove away. Only three minutes had passed since the armored truck stopped at the "detour" sign.

* * *

"Tape," Karen said, as the uniformed officer lifted the crime scene tape at the perimeter, allowing her and Jim to follow Marty and Tom to meet the patrol supervisor standing next to the open rear doors of the armored truck.

"What've we got?" Marty asked.

"Armored truck robbery," Sergeant Stan Bartick told him. "The driver and the guard are both DOA. Looks like the 'detour' sign at the end of the block – " He paused, nodding his head in that direction. " – was a fake. The drivers are trained to ignore stuff like that, if it isn't on their run sheets, so they must've driven around it, straight into an ambush."

"Yeah, but what made 'em stop?" Jim wondered out loud. "Aren't they also trained not to stop for anything?"

"Yeah, they are," Bartick agreed. "So far, there's nothing to indicate why they would've stopped here."

"How'd it come in?" Marty asked.

"The company – Garrison Armored Transport – notified us when the driver didn't check in on schedule," Bartick explained. "They gave us the route, we followed it, and – " he gestured at the covered figure of the dead guard lying on the pavement.

"When did it happen?" Karen asked.

"According to the company, they were scheduled to be at this location about a half hour ago, if they followed their route," Bartick answered.

"What about witnesses?" Jim asked.

Bartick shook his head. "None so far. Apparently, there was no other traffic on the street, because of the 'detour' sign, and the buildings on either side are vacant, because they're both being renovated."

Marty frowned. "Damn," he said, "looks like a lot of planning went into this. Whoever did this is pretty slick."

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "We'll start a canvass at the end of the block, see if anyone in those buildings heard or saw anything."

"OK," Tom said. "We'll wait for crime scene and the ME."


	2. Chapter 2

**Day of Reckoning**

_Chapter Two_

_Sunday_

"Jimmy, do you have the directions?"

Jim was leaning over the desk when Christie called from across the room. He straightened up when he heard his wife's voice, then turned to face her before answering. "Right here," he said, tapping his forehead.

"Jimmy – " she chided him, sounding annoyed. "It was really nice of your boss to invite the squad to his house for a barbecue. It won't look good if we get lost on the way there."

"Don't worry," he assured her. "I've got 'em written down, too." He gestured toward some papers on the desk. "Besides," he added with a grin, "I don't think the boss is gonna blame _me_ if we get lost."

Christie smiled in spite of herself. "OK. You ready?"

"Yep. Just let me put Hank's harness on, and we're outta here."

Ten minutes later, Christie stopped the car at the light at the end of their block. "Let me see the directions," she said.

"I told you, I've got 'em in here," Jim reminded her, pointing to his head. "Just get on the BQE and head north. I'll tell you where to go from there."

"No, Jimmy, let me see them, I want to know where we're going. What if you miss a turn?"

"OK," Jim said, handing her a sheet of paper.

"What's this?"

"The directions," Jim told her with a grin.

"But they're _in Braille_," Christie protested.

"I know." The light had changed, and a horn honked behind them. Fuming, Christie drove through the intersection, toward the expressway.

"We're here." Christie gave a sigh of relief as she pulled into a parking space a block from the Fisks' house in Middle Village.

"See, I told you not to worry," Jim retorted with a smile.

"Don't start with me," Christie warned him. They got out of the car and walked to the Fisks' house in silence.

Gary Fisk saw Christie, Jim and Hank approaching and came out to greet them. "We're in the back yard," he said. They followed him through the house. As they passed the kitchen, Fisk introduced them to his wife Marie.

"I've heard a lot about you," she told Jim after the introductions.

"I was afraid of that," Jim told her with a wry grin.

"No, no, it's all good," Marie assured him. "But Gary's life sure has been a lot more interesting since you were assigned to his squad."

"Sorry about that."

A bell chimed in the kitchen. "Excuse me," Marie said, "the artichoke dip needs to come out of the oven."

Christie, Jim and Hank followed Fisk out the back door and onto the patio. Christie described the patio and back yard as she led Jim to a chair. He sat down and took off Hank's harness. Hank settled on the ground next to him, resting his head on his front paws.

"What're you doing?" Christie asked when she saw Jim taking off the harness.

"It's Sunday," Jim explained, "Hank should have the afternoon off, too." He hung the harness over the back of the chair, making a mental note of its location.

A familiar voice greeted him. "Hey, Jim."

"Hey, Tom. You remember my wife, Christie?"

"Sure. Nice to see you, Christie. This is my girlfriend, Maya Robertson. Maya, Christie Dunbar, Jim Dunbar."

Jim stood up and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you."

Maya took his hand, then responded, in a warm contralto voice, "It's nice to meet you, too – at last. I thought maybe you'd come to pottery class with us, but. . . ."

"Me, too," Jim agreed sadly, "but we took ballroom dancing lessons instead."

"So I heard," Maya told him with a smile. "Maybe you'll give us a demonstration, later?"

"Uh, we'll get back to you on that, OK?"

Christie spoke up. "Karen's here. I'm going to go talk to her. You OK, Jim?"

"Sure."

"Why don't you come with me, Maya?" Christie asked, "I'll introduce you to Karen."

"I'd like that," Maya replied.

"You want a beer, Jim?" Tom asked.

"Yeah, that'd be good."

"I'll be right back."

After he heard Christie, Maya and Tom walk away, Jim sat down. As he waited for Tom to return, he wondered why Christie wanted to talk to Karen. The two women had become friendly lately, but he couldn't figure out what they could possibly have in common – except himself. When he asked Christie what she and Karen talked about, all she would say was, "Oh, you know, girl talk." Jim _didn't_ know, but he knew it wouldn't do any good to ask.

Tom was back, carrying two bottles of beer. "Here you go, Jim," he said, touching Jim's hand with one of the bottles. Jim took it from him and drank. Tom sat down next to him, but after a few minutes their conversation lagged. Jim knew Tom was still there because he didn't want to leave him sitting by himself. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Jim shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He hated sitting passively, waiting for people to come to him. He wanted to get up and go somewhere, but where? It was difficult to mingle when he wasn't always sure where people were or what they were doing. Jim had never been able to come up with a satisfactory solution to the problem. He took a drink, then thought for a moment, rolling the beer bottle back and forth in his hands. He had an idea.

"Hey, Tom," he said, "Is Marty here?"

"Yeah, he just got here."

"Take me to him, will you?"

"No problem. Just sit tight, I'll get him," Tom replied, waving at Marty and calling, "Hey, Marty!" Frustrated, Jim sighed inwardly. He should've known better than to try out his idea on Tom.

Marty walked over to them, accompanied by a dark-haired boy of about nine who looked remarkably like him. As they approached, Tom spotted Maya and went to join her. "See you later, Jim," he said.

"Yeah, sure."

"Hey, Jim," Marty said.

"Hey, Marty," Jim replied, standing up. "And who is that with you?"

"My son, Justin," Marty told him. "Justin, this is Detective Jim Dunbar."

"Hey, Justin," Jim said, extending his hand at Justin's level. "Pleased to meet you."

Justin shook Jim's hand. "Can I ask you something, Detective Dunbar?" he asked hesitantly.

"Sure," Jim assured him. Children always had questions for him. He sometimes wished adults were so open about asking the questions which were obviously on their minds. "What do you want to know?"

"How did you know I was here?" Justin asked. "I mean – " He stopped, apparently at a loss.

"I heard you," Jim explained. "When you can't see, you learn how to listen – I mean, _really_ listen. I can tell a lot about what's happening around me from what I hear."

"Cool," Justin said.

"Besides," Jim added with a grin, "your dad told me you were coming with him today."

"Is that your dog?" Justin asked.

"Yes."

"What's his name?"

"Hank."

"My dad says he's a guide dog."

"Yeah, he is."

"He must be really smart," Justin observed.

Jim nodded solemnly. "He is."

"And he takes you places?"

"Not exactly," Jim told him. "I know where we're going and how to get there, and he helps me get there. We work together."

"Oh." Justin paused for a minute, looking at Hank admiringly. "Can I pet him?"

"Sure. I took his harness off, see?" Jim said, patting the harness hanging on the chair back. "That means he's not working now."

"Cool," said Justin, squatting down to pat Hank's head.

"Hey, Marty, where's the boss?" Jim asked.

"Over by the barbecue, flippin' burgers and dogs."

"Can you take me to him?"

"Sure."

"He's a good kid," Jim commented as they crossed the patio to the barbecue.

"Yeah, he is," Marty agreed. "He was really curious about meeting you. I hope you didn't mind his questions."

Jim waved a hand dismissively. "No problem. He can ask me anything he wants to."

"Thanks," Marty said, coming to a stop. "Here we are."

Jim and Marty spent a few minutes trading ideas about the armored truck robbery and debating the relative strengths of the Yankees' and Mets' starting pitching rotations with Fisk, while he finished cooking the first batch of hamburgers and hot dogs. After Fisk transferred the last burger to a serving platter, Marty left to find Justin, who was playing fetch with Hank, and Fisk took Jim back to the table where he had been sitting earlier.

"Can I fix you a plate, Jim?" he asked.

"No, thanks, I'm good," Jim told him.

A few minutes later, Christie sat down next to him. "Here you go, Jimmy," she said, setting a plate in front of him. "Burger's at twelve o'clock, potato salad – "

Jim interrupted her recital. "You got me a burger?"

"Well, yes, that's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"I was gonna have a hot dog," Jim told her.

"A hot dog?" Christie asked. "You don't even like hot dogs."

"Well, I like 'em today. I was over by the barbecue when the boss was cooking them. They smelled good."

"OK, then, I'll go get you one."

Jim waved a hand. "Don't bother," he said, "it's OK." Frowning, he picked up his burger and took a bite. Christie gave him an irritated look, then turned her attention to her own plate.

As the afternoon wound down, Jim ended up in the family room, with Marty, Justin, and Fisk's 15-year-old son, Greg. Tired out from an afternoon spent playing with Justin and the Fisks' Australian Shepherd, Lucky, Hank napped at his feet. A late baseball game, the Yankees at the Angels, was on the big-screen TV. When the broadcast went to a commercial during a pitching change, Jim started second-guessing the Yankee manager's decision to take out his starting pitcher after the Angels scored three runs in the bottom of the third.

"Torre pulled him too soon," he asserted. "He was still getting ahead of the hitters."

"I dunno, Jim," Marty replied. "I gotta tell you, the guy looked like he was really laboring out there."

"If you say so," Jim said, unconvinced.

"Hey," Christie said as she walked into the room. She leaned over Jim's shoulder and whispered, "People are starting to leave. Are you ready to go?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Jim said. He snapped his fingers. "Hank." The German Shepherd sat up, and Jim scratched his ears. "His harness is outside, on the back of the chair where I was sitting."

"I'll get it."

Christie returned a few moments later. "It's not there," she reported, "are you sure you didn't put it someplace else?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Jim replied, adding a muttered "dammit" under his breath.

"OK, I'll look for it. It has to be here somewhere."

A flustered Marie Fisk rushed into the family room several minutes later, carrying Hank's harness. She placed it in Jim's hand. "I am so sorry, Jim," she said. "I saw the dog's harness hanging on the back of the chair, and I was afraid it would fall off and be damaged, so I put it somewhere safe. I should have told you, I just didn't think – " She broke off in confusion.

With an effort, Jim shrugged it off. "Not a problem. Thank you." He smiled, hoping it didn't look forced.

Ten minutes later, they had said their good-byes and were on their way home. About a half mile down the road from the Fisks' house, Christie stopped the car for a red light. She looked over at Jim in the passenger seat. His face was turned toward the window, away from her. "What was that all about?" she demanded.

Jim turned his head to face her. "What d'you mean?" he asked.

"Don't play that game with me," she snapped. "You know exactly what I mean – that stunt you pulled with the directions on the way here. You could've gotten us lost. And you know how I hate not knowing where we're going, when I'm driving."

"Join the club," Jim told her bitterly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know," Jim told her, "maybe I just want to have a little control over my own damn life, for a change. Did you ever think of that, huh?"

"But, Jimmy – " she began.

Jim cut her off. "And I don't need you to think for me, either. Just leave me alone, OK?"

"That can be arranged," she said coldly, "if that's what you want."

The light changed, and they drove the rest of the way home in silence, Christie wondering what had gotten into her husband, while Jim chafed at the restrictions, both real and perceived, that blindness had imposed on him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Day of Reckoning**

_Chapter Three _

_Monday_

"What've we got on the armored truck?" Fisk asked after calling the squad into his office at the beginning of the day.

Marty answered first. "It looks like they used fake detour signs to divert traffic from the street where they hit the truck. They must've known the armored truck wouldn't take the detour – the drivers are briefed on their route before each run, and they're supposed to ignore detours and road closures that aren't on their run sheet. But the other traffic followed the fake detour, so the street where they hit the truck was empty."

"DOT confirms the detour signs were bogus," Tom added, "they weren't doing any road work at that location last Thursday."

"Did you get anything on the canvass?" Fisk asked.

"Not really," Karen told him. "The buildings closest to the scene were vacant. Some people in the buildings down the block heard the gunshots, but no one saw anything, except a black van driving away."

"Didn't they give you anything more than that?"

Karen shook her head. "No. The witnesses all took cover when they heard the shots. By the time they looked, the van was too far away for them to see the plate. These guys were slick, boss, it only took a couple of minutes for the whole thing to go down."

"Do we know what kind of weapons they used?"

"Some of the witnesses said it sounded like automatic weapons fire," Jim replied.

"That's what the ME thinks, too," Marty added. "Cause of death was multiple GSWs, large caliber. The patterns of the wounds indicate automatic weapons, probably assault rifles or something similar."

"Crime scene found a lot of large-caliber shell casings at the scene," Tom said. "But good luck matching them to any guns. These guys are smart. I bet the first thing they did was ditch the guns."

"Any idea how they got the guard to get out of the truck?" Fisk ask.

"Nope," Marty answered, shaking his head. "The company says the guards and drivers are supposed to stay in the truck if they're stopped."

"What're you working on today?"

"We're pretty sure the perps have a contact inside the company," Jim said. "They obviously knew the route the truck was going to take, and they hit the truck carrying the most cash of any of the shipments scheduled for that day."

"How much did they get?" Fisk asked.

"Just under $250,000," Jim answered. "So me and Karen have been looking into the company's employees."

"You get anything?"

"Not so far," Karen said. "Everyone is bonded, they all have clean records. We're gonna start checking on former employees – you know, maybe someone has a grudge and still has a contact in the company – "

" – and we're also looking into the employees' finances," Jim added. "Someone who's strapped for cash would be an easy mark."

"OK, keep at it," Fisk told them. "Tom, Marty, what're you looking at?"

"We're looking at armored car robberies in the tri-state area. We've gone back a couple of years, but so far we haven't found any that look similar."

"Anything else?" Fisk asked. When no one spoke up, he dismissed the squad, "Hit it."

* * *

Frank McAllister was stretched out on the bed in the Tribeca hotel room he'd rented under the name of "Frank Jordan" when his cell phone rang.

"Yes." He listened for a moment, then asked, "How much?" After another pause, he said, "OK. You have the route?. . . Here's what you're gonna do. Take your lunch at noon sharp and go to the coffee shop at Seventh and Avenue A. Sit at a table near the counter. Bring a newspaper with you, and put the run sheet in it. Leave the newspaper on the table when you go. Got it?. . .OK. Just don't fuck it up, you hear me?"

He ended the call and closed the phone, then lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head, thinking. He didn't like having to rely on his cousin Matt Fletcher, who was his contact inside Garrison Armored Transport, but there was no way around it. Matt was the only one who could get him the information on the shipments to hit. But Matt was weak, he thought contemptuously. It had been easy to pull him in, after McAllister learned he'd gambled himself into a shitload of debt. He didn't have the balls to stand up to pressure. And if the cops ever got onto him, he'd cave in and talk, for sure. McAllister had already decided he wasn't going to let that happen.

McAllister checked the bedside clock: time to go. He packed his small briefcase and checked out of the hotel. Once outside, he walked east, then north, heading for the coffee shop. He joined the late-morning pedestrians on the streets, careful not to draw attention to himself. It was easy for him to blend in. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance: a clean-shaven man in his mid-thirties, of average height and build, with hazel eyes and neatly-trimmed light brown hair. Like many of the people on the streets, he was casually dressed, in black. It was unlikely anyone who saw him would notice him, much less remember him. He walked at his usual pace. There was no need to hurry; he had plenty of time. He casually discarded his cell phone and "Frank Jordan" identification in random trash cans along his route.

As planned, he arrived at the coffee shop at 12:25 and took a seat at the counter. He spotted Fletcher at a nearby table but was careful not to make eye contact. At least Matt didn't fuck that up, he thought. There was little chance anyone in the coffee shop would remember either of them, anyway. Fletcher's appearance was as unremarkable as McAllister's. They had the same hazel eyes and light brown hair. But Fletcher's hair was thinning, and he was a little taller and thinner than his cousin. Recently, his regular features had taken on a perpetually anxious expression.

A few minutes after his lunch arrived, McAllister noticed Fletcher leaving. He casually slid down from his stool at the counter and retrieved the newspaper from the table. He pulled out the sports section and read it as he finished his meal, then slipped the paper into his briefcase before paying his check and leaving.

He crossed the street to Tompkins Square Park and found an out-of-the-way bench. He took the newspaper out of his briefcase and pulled out the run sheet. It took only a few minutes' study to identify three potential locations for the operation. After replacing the run sheet in his briefcase, he set out to reconnoiter them.

By mid-afternoon, McAllister had chosen the site for the next operation. After stopping to buy a new prepaid cell phone, he checked into a SoHo hotel under the name of "James Baker." From his room, he called the other members of the team and gave them their instructions for the following day. His day's work done, McAllister went out for a leisurely dinner in Little Italy. He waved off the wine list when the waiter offered it, however. He needed a clear head tomorrow. By 11 p.m., he was back at his hotel, sound asleep.

* * *

"Christie?"

"In the kitchen."

Jim took off Hank's harness one-handed, while holding a bouquet of flowers in the other hand. After he put the harness in its usual place on the table in the foyer, he headed for the kitchen, holding the bouquet out in front of him.

"I'm sorry," he said, "for – you know, for yesterday."

Christie took the flowers. She examined them for a moment, then said, "Thank you." She took a step toward Jim and gave him a peck on the cheek. "What was going on with you yesterday?"

"I don't know," Jim began uncertainly. Looking pained, he continued, "I guess it still . . . it gets to me, sometimes." He bowed his head and turned away from her.

Christie looked at him thoughtfully. "Look, Jimmy, I know you resent the fact that you need me – "

"No, no," Jim interrupted her, "that's not it. It's just – maybe I haven't come as far as you think."

"Maybe. But don't take it out on me, OK?"

"I'll try. I promise I'll try." She scrutinized him for a moment, as if trying to gauge his sincerity, then touched his cheek briefly before walking away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Day of Reckoning**

_Chapter Four_

_Tuesday_

Jim took off his earpiece and rubbed his temple.

"You got anything, Jim?" Karen asked.

He shook his head. "Nope. Just taking a break." He stood up and started toward the locker room for a cup of coffee.

Marty watched him for a moment. "You know, Jim, we're not gettin' anywhere, checking out the company's employees. They're all clean."

Jim stopped and turned back to face him. "You got a better idea, Marty?" he asked. "C'mon, let's hear it."

Marty scowled and picked up his phone. When he heard no response, Jim shook his head resignedly and continued on his way. Before he reached the hall, Fisk came out of his office. "We got another one."

"Another armored truck?" Tom asked.

"Yeah," Fisk replied, handing him a slip of paper. "Get going."

As she rose to leave, Karen glanced over at Jim. He had returned to his desk and was running his hands over the top of his scanner, frowning. "Dammit," he muttered.

"To your right, on the desk," she said in a low voice.

"Wha – ? Oh. Thanks." Jim searched the right side of his desktop until he found his dark glasses. Still frowning, he put them on, signaled Hank, and followed Karen out of the squad room.

The four detectives ducked under the crime scene tape, then walked around the "detour" sign to join the patrol supervisor, who was standing on the sidewalk next to the armored truck, talking to the two EMTs whose "bus" was parked next to the truck. Two covered bodies lay motionless in the street. As the detectives approached, the EMTs started to walk away. One of them looked back at the two DOAs and shook his head sadly.

"Detectives," Sergeant Stan Bartick greeted them. "Looks like we've got another one – almost a carbon copy of the last one."

"'Almost'?" Jim asked.

"Yeah." Bartick explained, "Both the guard and the driver are DOA, looks like multiple GSW's – just like the last one. And the truck's from the same company, Garrison. But this time, the truck took the fake detour. The dispatcher says the driver called in when he saw the detour sign, and they talked it over and agreed the truck would take the detour instead. But it looks like the perps were one step ahead of them, that's what they planned on."

"But the detour sign is on this street," Karen protested.

"I know," Bartick replied. "We think the perps moved the sign after the truck came down this street, to divert traffic onto the other street."

"Damn," Tom said, "these guys are smart."

"Yeah," Bartick agreed.

"Any witnesses?" Marty asked.

"No," Bartick replied, shaking his head. "A couple people in this building – " He waved his hand, indicating the building behind him. " – called 911 when they heard the gunshots, but they didn't see anything. It all went down real fast."

"OK," Jim said grimly. "Let's get started. We all know what we need to do."

_Wednesday_

Marty arrived at the station early, anxious to follow up on an idea that came to him as he lay awake the night before. An hour later, he hung up his phone. "Bingo."

Tom and Karen stopped what they were doing and raised their heads to look at him. Next to Karen, Jim took off his earpiece and leaned forward.

"You got something?" Tom asked.

Marty leaned back in his chair. "Yeah. I been looking into one of the dispatchers at Garrison – a Matt Fletcher. He's the one who was on duty when the driver called in. I thought he was kinda squirrely, you know, when me and Tom talked to him yesterday."

"What've you got?" Karen asked.

"He's been working there about a year, clean record. But his financial records just came through. He's in deep shit – behind on his rent and car payments, and he's maxed out all his credit cards. And it looks like some of his credit card charges are gambling-related – online gambling sites, stuff like that."

The other detectives all nodded knowingly. "Let's tell the boss," Tom said, "then we'll go get him."

Forty-five minutes later, Matt Fletcher sat at the table in the interview room, anxiously tapping a finger on the table top. He looked up, startled, when Marty and Tom came in.

"You know why you're here, right, Matt?" Marty began as he walked around the table.

"Uh, not really," Fletcher mumbled, hanging his head and looking down.

"Hey," Marty said, cuffing Fletcher under the chin, "look at me. You're not gonna get any answers from the floor."

Tom sat down at the table across from Fletcher. "It's OK," he said softly. "We know."

Fletcher looked up at him in disbelief. "Know? Know what?"

"We know about your little problem," Marty told him scornfully. He stopped next to Tom and leaned across the table toward Fletcher. "Pretty strapped for cash, huh? That how they recruited you?"

Fletcher's face fell. He looked away from the two detectives, toward the one-way glass, where Fisk, Karen, and Jim were listening. "Shit," he muttered miserably. "He'll kill me."

"Who's that, Matt?" Tom asked.

"I can't," Fletcher whispered, repeating, "he'll kill me." He buried his face in his hands.

"Whoever you're talking about, he doesn't have to know you gave him up," Tom told him.

Fletcher looked up at him with a skeptical expression. "He'll figure it out. Trust me. He's smart – real smart."

"So who're we talking about, Matt?" Marty demanded.

Fletcher seemed to crumple. "My cousin," he said helplessly.

"He got a name?"

"Frank McAllister."

"What happened?" Tom prompted him.

"He knew about my – problem, that I was hurting for dough. He said I wouldn't have to do anything, really, just tell him – you know, when a big shipment of cash was being moved."

"So you did," Tom suggested.

"Yeah," Fletcher agreed. "When a big shipment was scheduled, I snuck copies of the run sheets out of the office and gave them to him. That's all I did."

"Oh, that's all?" Marty asked sarcastically. He walked around to Fletcher's side of the table and leaned over his shoulder. "We got four DOAs so far. You know what that means?"

"No," Fletcher replied, looking at Marty fearfully.

"That's multiple murder, first degree. And you're an accomplice. You're going away for a long, long time."

Fletcher stared at Marty in horror. Marty nodded in confirmation, then sat down next to Fletcher and folded his arms.

"But it doesn't have to be like that," Tom said soothingly. "You help us, and we can help you."

"OK."

"So where do we find this cousin of yours, this Frank McAllister?"

"I don't know," Fletcher told him. "He's been movin' around a lot, never stays in the same place for more than a coupla days. He's got a lot of fake IDs set up, he keeps changing every few days."

"What's he calling himself today?" Tom asked.

"Don't know. He doesn't tell me stuff like that. He's strictly a need-to-know guy, you know what I mean?"

"OK. So how do you get ahold of him?"

"He uses prepaid cell phones, gets rid of them after a few calls."

"You got a number where you can call him?"

"Yes," Fletcher answered eagerly.

"But you don't know where he is?"

"No."

Tom and Marty exchanged looks, then Marty stood up and walked back to the end of the table. "Look, Matt," he said, "this is all very interesting, but it ain't gonna cut it. You want to help yourself, you gotta give us more."

Fletcher looked down and thought for a minute, then said slowly, "Well, there _is_ one other thing . . . You know that blind guy you got working here – what's his name?"

"Dunbar," Marty snapped. "What about him?"

"I recognized him when you brought me in – remembered him from the TV news, you know?"

"Yeah, so what?" Marty asked impatiently.

"You know that robbery where he got shot?" Marty nodded. "That was Frank's job. He planned it."

In the observation room, Fisk and Karen exchanged startled looks. Jim was standing in his usual place next to the wall at the far end of the observation room, leaving the space in front of the one-way glass free for Karen and Fisk. He turned his head away from them, but not before Karen saw the color drain from his face. Then he reached out with his right hand and found the wall, as if seeking support. "Son of a bitch," he muttered.

"Yeah, that was some planning," Marty muttered sarcastically.

"Yeah, well, Frank told me he figured out what went wrong on that job. He said he learned from his mistakes, there wasn't gonna be any screw-ups this time."

"C'mon, man, you don't expect us to believe that, do you?" Marty asked.

"No, no, I swear, it's the truth," Fletcher insisted.

"So where's Frank been for the last two years?" Tom asked.

"California. After that job blew up in his face, he figured New York was too hot for him. He's been layin' low out West, planning these new jobs. He just came back a coupla months ago. That's when he got in touch with me. He told me he had it all figured out, he had the guns and the team put together, his fake IDs, sending the money offshore after the heists, all that stuff."

Fletcher leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, then continued, "Frank told me all about that job two years ago. He saw the whole thing. He said there must've been a big cover-up or somethin', because it didn't go down the way they said it did."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Marty demanded.

"Jackie – he was Frank's brother – he's out in the middle of the street with his assault rifle, trying to take out as many cops as he can. That cop who got blinded – Dunbar – he's firing at Jackie from behind a car. All of a sudden Dunbar stops shooting, like he's out of ammo or his gun jammed or somethin'. Then Jackie throws down his rifle. So Dunbar starts yelling at some other cop to take the shot, Jackie's empty. But the other cop – it's like he froze up, or somethin'. Dunbar keeps yelling at him, but he's like a statue. Dunbar finally runs over to him and takes his gun and gets off a coupla shots. By that time, Jackie's pulled out his nine and he gets off a shot at Dunbar before Dunbar takes him out."

Marty and Tom stared at Fletcher, speechless.


	5. Chapter 5

**Day of Reckoning**

_Chapter Five_

Fletcher paused as Marty and Tom looked at him, then at each other, unable to conceal their shock and disbelief. Fisk glanced at Karen, who looked back at him, wide-eyed with horror. Jim stood motionless, still facing away from them. His mind raced. He had finally buried that day at the bank and the days after it – or so he thought. Now all of that was going to be dredged up – again. The prospect filled him with dread, but he told himself he could handle it if he had to. Jim doubted there would be any repercussions for him. If anyone asked why he hadn't come forward to correct Terry's statement, all he had to do was remind them of what he was going through at the time. He wouldn't hesitate to play on people's sympathy, if that's what it took. But he was determined that the story of Terry shooting himself must not come out – not for his sake, but for Karen's. They had been partners for only a few weeks then, but she had placed extraordinary trust in him when she let him handle the situation in his own way. He was _not_ going to betray that trust. He would have to stick to his story that Terry shot himself "accidentally." He knew he could pull it off. Now that he couldn't make eye contact, it was hard for people to tell when he was lying. Might as well take advantage of it, he thought.

"That's a hell of a story you're feedin' us," Tom told Fletcher, giving him a skeptical look.

"It's God's truth, I swear it. That's exactly how Frank told it to me. He said that other cop blew it, big time, so Dunbar had to be the hero. But the cops wouldn't come clean about that other cop fucking up, even though Dunbar ended up blind. Frank thought it was pretty damn funny."

"Yeah, right, it's hilarious," Marty told him sarcastically.

As Marty spoke, Fisk pushed past Karen and left the observation room. He knocked on the door of the interview room, then entered. "I need you two for a minute," he told Tom and Marty.

Karen emerged from the observation room, followed by Jim. After Fisk closed the door of the interview room behind Marty, Tom, and himself, he turned to Jim. "My office, Jim," he said curtly.

Karen, Tom and Marty returned to their desks and watched Jim follow Fisk to his office. When the door closed behind them, Marty turned to Karen. "Did you know about this?" he demanded.

Karen shook her head. "No. I guessed something . . . happened, when Jim got shot. But not – this."

"He never told you?"

"No. I asked him once what happened with him and Terry, but he would only say that maybe Terry hadn't 'stepped up' as much as he could have. He never told me the whole story."

"You think Fletcher's telling the truth?" Tom asked.

Karen nodded. "Yeah, I do." She slumped back in her chair.

"Damn," Tom said, shaking his head.

"So let me get this straight," Marty said. "Jim's partner fucks up, and Jim ends up blind, and Jim covers for the guy?"

"That's what it looks like," Tom agreed.

"But why would he do that?" Marty demanded.

Karen shrugged. "Who knows? But you know Jim, he must've had his reasons, if that's what he did."

"Yeah, I guess, but – "

The three detectives fell silent, trying to make sense of what they'd just heard and wondering what was happening behind the closed door of the lieutenant's office.

Jim entered the office a few steps behind Fisk. "Close it," Fisk ordered. Jim closed the door and stepped forward into the office. Fisk sat behind his desk, then said, in a gentler tone, "Have a seat, Jim."

Fisk waited as Jim reached out, found a chair, and sat. Then he asked, in a low voice, "Is it true?"

Jim nodded. "Yes," he said simply.

Fisk gave Jim an appraising look while he considered his options. But first he needed some answers. "Did any of the others know, before today?" he asked.

"No."

"You didn't tell Karen?"

"No, sir," Jim asserted, shaking his head for emphasis.

Fisk frowned. "What Fletcher said – you know that's not what the reports say."

"I know."

"Can you explain that?"

Jim took a deep breath. "When the detectives came to talk to me, it was just a few days after – you know. I was in pretty rough shape, still doped up. I wasn't sure I was remembering things right, you know?"

"All right," Fisk replied. "Go on."

"They basically fed me the story Terry told them, and I went along with it. I figured Terry must know what happened, right?"

"But you remembered – later?"

"Yes, I did." Jim bowed his head.

"And you didn't say anything?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"The investigation was over. And I had – other things on my mind." Jim paused. Fisk looked at him, not without compassion. "Besides, I wanted to deal with Terry myself."

"What d'you mean by that?" Fisk asked sharply.

"Just – talk to him."

"That's all?"

"Yeah."

"Did you ever – ?"

"Did I ever what?"

"Deal with him?"

"No. By the time I – " Jim frowned, then continued, "Uh, after a while, I decided I had nothing to say to him."

"What about when Terry got shot?"

Jim shook his head emphatically. "No."

"You didn't have anything to do with him changing his story?"

"No, sir," Jim insisted. "It was over. I was done with him."

"All right," Fisk said. He gave Jim a skeptical look. "That's all."

"This stays in the squad, right, boss?"

"This stays in the squad," Fisk agreed. "For now."

"Thanks."

Jim stood up and took a few steps toward the door. Then he stopped and turned back to face Fisk. "Let's get this son of a bitch McAllister."

"We will," Fisk assured him. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, looking thoughtful, as Jim walked out of the office.

As Jim made his way to his desk, Karen, Marty, and Tom watched him in silence. He sat down at his desk and rubbed his right eye. Marty was the first to speak. "So – is that really how it went down at the bank?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Holy shit."

"That sucks, man," Tom said.

"Yeah. Big time," Marty agreed.

Karen looked on but said nothing. Fletcher's revelations had left her shaken, but at the same time she couldn't help feeling anxious, too. She didn't want to think about the consequences which would surely follow if the whole story of Terry shooting himself came out. They couldn't let that happen.

When Jim didn't respond, Marty demanded, "That's all you have to say?"

Jim turned to face him. "What do you want me to say, Marty? It happened."

"Your ex-partner fucked up and you ended up blind, and all you have to say is, 'it happened'?'

Jim shrugged. "It was two years ago."

Marty shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"What's the boss going to do about this?" Karen asked, trying not to let her anxiety show.

"He said he'd keep it in the squad – for now."

"What about your ex-partner shooting himself – 'accidentally'?" Marty asked.

"What about it?" Jim asked, careful to keep his voice and expression neutral.

"You're telling me that had nothing to do with what we just heard?"

"That's what I'm telling you. It was an accident," Jim insisted.

Marty looked questioningly at Karen, who nodded in response. He gave her a skeptical look in return, but when she met his eyes, he shrugged and turned away.

Jim stood up abruptly. "I'm taking Hank out," he announced, slapping his thigh. As he walked out of the squad room, Karen watched him, looking undecided. Then she called out, "Jim! Wait up!" Marty and Tom exchanged knowing looks as she followed Jim out of the squad.

Jim ordered Hank to stop when they were a block and a half from the station house. "Are you OK?" Karen asked him.

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"What d'you think the boss is gonna do?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," Jim assured her. "Think about it, Karen. There's no point. Terry's off the job, anyway. And McAllister was right – if the story comes out now, it'll look like there was a cover-up. The Department wouldn't look too good, would it?"

"I guess not," Karen agreed.

"I'm betting the boss has already figured that out, and if he hasn't, he will." Jim thought for a moment, frowning. "Listen, Karen, if what happened at the bank comes out, I can handle it. But no one needs to know about Terry shooting himself. I don't want you to get dragged into this. "

"It's a little late for that, don't you think?"

"I know." Jim turned away from her and bowed his head. When he turned back toward her, he had a pained expression on his face. "I'm sorry you ever had to get involved in this. But it stays between us, OK?"

"OK," she agreed. "But Marty already thinks there's something fishy about Terry shooting himself. You know the boss has to suspect something, too."

"I know. But no one knows what happened except you, me, and Terry – and Christie. You, me, and Christie aren't gonna talk. Terry isn't gonna talk, either – not if he wants to collect his pension. All we have to do is stick to our story. OK?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Karen said doubtfully. Jim ordered Hank forward, and they walked back to the station house in silence.


	6. Chapter 6

**Day of Reckoning**

_Chapter Six_

Fisk called the squad into his office. After they crowded into the small space and Jim closed the door behind them, he looked at them and frowned. "What Matt Fletcher told us about the robbery two years ago will stay in the squad, for now," he told them. He paused, noticing the relief on Karen's face, then added, "But I'm not making any promises. Understood?" All four detectives nodded solemnly. "OK. Now – anyone have any ideas on how to get to this McAllister?"

Marty spoke up. "Yeah, I do. We get in touch with the company, have them make up a phony run sheet for a big shipment. Then we get Matt to contact McAllister and tell him about it. When Matt delivers the run sheet, we grab him."

Fisk thought for a moment. "That might work," he finally said. "Anyone see any holes in it?" When no one raised any objection to the plan, he said, "Do it."

By the time the manager of Garrison Armored Transport's Manhattan office delivered the fake run sheet two hours later, Marty and Tom had convinced Fletcher he had no option but to cooperate, and they had briefed him on the plan.

"You sure this guy can pull it off?" Fisk asked, jerking his head in the direction of the interview room where Fletcher waited.

"No," Marty told him, "but he's all we've got."

"OK." Fisk frowned. "Everything ready?"

Marty and Tom escorted Fletcher to a desk, where a phone was waiting for him. It had been set up to show the number of Fletcher's phone on caller ID. Fletcher sat down and took a deep breath. His hand shook slightly as he picked up the phone and dialed the number McAllister had given him.

As the squad listened in, McAllister answered. "Yes."

"I got something for you," Fletcher began.

"How much?"

"Just under 800K."

"OK. When?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"What's the route?"

"I got the run sheet right here," Fletcher said.

"Just read me the route," McAllister replied, "I don't need the run sheet."

"Uh," Fletcher began, looking to the detectives for a cue. Marty nodded. "Oh. OK." He began reading the schedule and route from the fake run sheet. After he read the last entry, he listened as McAllister read back the information. When McAllister was finished, he grunted, "Yeah, that's right."

"OK." McAllister abruptly ended the call.

"Damn," Marty swore as soon as Fletcher hung up the phone.

"You think he suspects something?" Tom asked.

"I dunno," Fletcher answered, shrugging.

"C'mon," Tom told Fletcher, grabbing his arm and escorting him back to the interview room.

"What do you think, Jim?" Fisk asked after Tom closed the door behind Fletcher.

"Who knows?" Jim said, throwing up his hands.

Fisk frowned and thought for a minute. "I'll call Special Ops," he said. "We're gonna need to set up a decoy operation with them for tomorrow. Jim, Karen, you talk to Garrison, get them up to speed. If Mr. McAllister is expecting a shipment, we're not gonna disappoint him."

"What about him?" Tom asked, gesturing toward the interview room.

"We can't risk keeping him in custody," Marty pointed out, "McAllister might get wise."

"Yeah," Fisk agreed. "I'll set up surveillance on him. Then you can cut him loose, for now." He dismissed the squad. "Hit it."

Jim pondered the day's events as he rode the subway home to Brooklyn. Ever since the initial shock of Fletcher's disclosures had passed, his anger had been building. He was careful not to let it show. Fisk wouldn't hesitate to pull him off the case if the lieutenant thought it had become too personal. And it _was_ personal. Jim thought he had made his peace with what happened to him almost two years before. Now he knew he hadn't – not completely – not when the person who had orchestrated the robbery was still walking free, while he struggled to get his life back. In spite of his efforts to suppress it, the thought gnawed at him. He thought he'd gotten all the payback he needed when he killed the shooter, the man he now knew was McAllister's brother Jackie, but that wasn't enough. Not anymore.

Against his will, Jim found himself re-living the shooting and its aftermath. Mercifully, he remembered almost nothing of the first few days. Then the fog of pain and medications cleared, leaving him in numb disbelief. After that came a stream of people who kept insisting he was lucky to be alive. He didn't feel lucky. "Lucky" was not getting shot in the first place. "Lucky" was not being told he would never see again. The only ones less "lucky" than him were the ones who didn't survive the barrage of gunfire that day. Still, Jim thought as the subway screeched to a stop, maybe he was "lucky" after all. He had a chance to bring McAllister down. Maybe then he could make his peace.

* * *

"Jimmy?" Christie asked, giving her husband a worried look. Ever since he got home from work, Jim had been – somewhere else.

Jim raised his head in response to her voice. They had finished dinner, but Jim was still sitting at the counter, while she put the dishes in the dishwasher. He hadn't spoken and had hardly moved since he stopped picking at the food on his plate five minutes before.

"Are you done eating?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He pushed his plate toward her.

Christie reached across the counter and picked up the plate with Jim's half-eaten dinner. "What's going on?" she prodded gently.

Jim let out a breath. "Something . . . happened, at work today," he began.

"What's that?"

"You know we've been working those armored truck robberies – "

"Yes."

"We brought in the guy who's been tipping off the perps about the shipments."

"That's good," Christie said. When Jim didn't continue, she asked, "Isn't it?"

"Yeah." Jim paused, turning away from her and bowing his head.

Trying not to let her anxiety show in her voice, Christie asked, "Jimmy? What is it?"

He turned back to face her. "He said the same guy who's been doing the armored truck robberies was also behind the robbery . . . where I got shot." Christie stared at her husband, at a loss for words. After a moment, Jim went on. "Frank – the guy behind the robbery – told him what happened when I got shot. What really happened, that is. So now they all know."

"Oh, my God," Christie breathed. Then her pragmatic side asserted itself, in spite of her shock. "What happens now?" she asked.

"I get the son of a bitch," Jim snapped.

"But Jimmy – "

"Think about it, Christie," he interrupted. "He's been out there walking around for two years, while – " He grimaced. "So, yeah, he's going down."

"I know, but – "

"Don't worry," he said with an impatient wave of his hand, "I'm not gonna do anything stupid."

Christie gave him a skeptical look, then changed the subject. "You said they all know now – about what happened at the bank. What's going to happen about that?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Yeah," Jim answered, repeating the explanation he'd given Karen earlier. Then he added, "But they don't know about Terry shooting himself. And they're not gonna know."

"I understand," Christie assured him.

"It's never gonna end, is it?" Jim asked bleakly. "I keep thinking I'm done with it, then – "

Christie gazed sadly at her husband while she considered what she should say. The honest answer to Jim's question was "no." He could never be truly "done" with that day at the bank, because he was going to live with its consequences for the rest of his life. But she didn't want to say that. She walked around the counter and sat on the stool next to him, then reached out and clasped his hand in both of hers. Finally she said, "I don't know what to say, Jimmy."

"You don't have to say anything." Jim bowed his head.

Christie squeezed his hand. Her recent annoyance with Jim faded away as she sat silently next to him, thinking. After Terry shot himself, all those months ago, she thought Jim was finally "done" with him and what happened at the bank. At last, she'd thought, he could put it behind him and begin to move forward in his new life. Now he had to deal with the whole mess, all over again. Hadn't he been through enough? It wasn't fair. But, she reminded herself, life isn't fair. She knew that already. So did Jim.

She took both of Jim's hands in hers and pulled him to his feet, then led him to the couch. He settled in next to her, resting his head on her breast. She put her arms around him and held him.

* * *

McAllister closed his phone and leaned back in his hotel room's easy chair, a satisfied smile on his face. It was all coming together. The team had been briefed on tomorrow's plan. Twenty-four hours from now, he'd be on his way to the islands, where his money was waiting. There was only one piece of unfinished business left. He opened the phone and dialed Matt's number.

Fifteen minutes later, McAllister left the midtown hotel where he'd registered as "Ralph Martin" the day before. He walked the two blocks to the fitness club which "Martin" had joined two days earlier. He devoted a half hour to weight training, then went to the locker room. He pulled a gym bag from his locker. In it were several changes of clothes. He selected a shabby outfit and put it on. After taking several other items from the bag, he replaced it in his locker and left.

Shortly after 11 p.m., Fletcher was waiting nervously on a bench in a remote area of Central Park. He had followed Frank's detailed instructions to the letter, but where was he? Fletcher knew the cops were watching him, but he was confident he'd given them the slip. He wasn't about to pass up the chance to collect what Frank owed him. He'd earned every penny of it. After the plan to set up a meeting with Frank fell through, those detectives hadn't told him anything. But he didn't have to have Frank's brains to figure it out. They were going to run an armored truck along the route he'd given Frank, and hope Frank took the bait. Fletcher had no intention of interfering with that plan. The only way he could get a deal was if the cops collared Frank. But he wasn't going to let that happen before he got his money.

Suddenly someone sat down beside him on the bench. Startled, Fletcher automatically scooted away. Shit, he thought. The man looked like a homeless guy, bearded and scruffy. Was this gonna fuck up his meeting with Frank?

"What's the matter, Matty?" the man asked.

Fletcher knew that voice. "Frank?"

McAllister laughed. "Who'd you think it was – here, at this time of night?"

"You startled me, that's all," Fletcher answered sheepishly. "You got it?"

"Yeah." McAllister pulled a package from his jacket and handed it to him.

Fletcher wanted to rip it open and examine its contents, but he didn't dare – not with Frank sitting next to him. He simply said, "Oh. OK. Thanks." He stood and turned to leave. He had only taken a few steps when he felt his windpipe being crushed. He struggled unsuccessfully to free himself from the cord encircling his neck. Then the effects of oxygen deprivation kicked in, and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious. When McAllister was certain his cousin was dead, he dragged him into the nearby bushes, retrieved the package, and slowly walked away, tucking the money back into his jacket.


	7. Chapter 7

**Day of Reckoning**

_Chapter Seven_

_Thursday_

Jim woke up, his heart pounding. He'd had that dream again, the one that always ended when he got shot, the one he'd come to think of as "the dream." But it was different this time. In the instant before the bullet slammed into his skull, he saw the masked gunman fall, revealing a faceless man standing behind him. He lay back on his pillow, breathing deeply in an effort to slow his racing heart. Next to him, Christie stirred but didn't say anything. He was pretty sure she hadn't awakened. He checked the time: almost six. Might as well get up, he thought wearily, and headed for the shower.

Jim arrived at work early, but Fisk was there before him. "Mornin', Jim," the lieutenant said when he saw Jim and Hank walking into the squad room.

"Mornin', boss," Jim replied. "What brings you here so early?"

"Bad news," Fisk informed him grimly. "Matt Fletcher's body was found in Central Park a couple hours ago. Looks like he was strangled."

"Damn," Jim said, grimacing. "It's gotta be McAllister. He had no further use for him, so he eliminated him."

"That's what it looks like," Fisk agreed.

"How'd McAllister get to him?"

"We're not sure," Fisk admitted. "He was still under surveillance, but he lost 'em a few blocks from his apartment. Apparently, he ducked into a bar, then slipped out the back before they could cover it."

"They didn't know he was gonna meet up with McAllister?"

"No. They weren't listening to his phone."

"Damn," Jim repeated, shaking his head.

"I already called the rest of the squad," Fisk continued. "They're on the way."

Twenty minutes later, Karen rushed into the squad – the last to arrive. She looked uncharacteristically frazzled. Marty looked at her quizzically. "What's the matter, kid?" he asked. "Boss's call interrupt something?"

"Mind your own business," she snapped. Undeterred, Marty grinned at her knowingly.

"All right, settle down," Fisk ordered as he walked out of his office. He sat on the desk opposite Jim's. "We need to decide whether to go ahead with the decoy, in light of Fletcher's murder."

"Sure, why not?" Tom asked.

Marty gave his partner an impatient look. "Because we're assuming McAllister killed him, right? Maybe he suspected we got to him."

"Could be," Jim said, "but I'm betting McAllister killed him because he was finished with him."

"How d'you figure that?" Marty asked.

"McAllister's smart. He knows he can't keep doing this. He thinks the next shipment – the decoy – is gonna be the big one. I think he's planning to do the job, then take his money and disappear. He doesn't need Fletcher any more. McAllister isn't gonna leave any loose ends. There's no way in hell he's gonna leave without taking care of Fletcher."

"Yeah," Karen agreed, "McAllister isn't going to pass up that kind of money. If he killed Fletcher, it must mean he's planning on this being his last job. Like Jim said, he doesn't need him anymore. I say we go."

"I guess," Marty conceded grudgingly.

"OK," Fisk said, "I'll call Special Ops and tell them to go ahead with the decoy armored truck run this afternoon."

"But we're still gonna be in on it, right, boss?" Jim asked.

"Yes, it's a joint operation."

Jim nodded, satisfied. "Good. Because we should be the ones to collar this bastard."

Fisk gave his blind detective a sharp look, wondering if Jim was taking this case too personally. It _was_ personal, he supposed. He was pretty sure he could rely on Jim to maintain his objectivity. But he would keep an eye on him, just the same.

* * *

The squad spent the rest of the morning with the Special Ops team, completing the planning for the operation. Now Karen, Jim, and Hank were crowded into the back of the nondescript van the Special Ops technicians were using as their listening post. The van was following the same route as the decoy armored truck, keeping well back so as not to be spotted. As Jim listened to the terse reports coming over the radio, he imagined the others doing the same. For once, they were all equal, he thought wryly. None of the others could see what was happening, either.

Tom and Marty were in the armored truck, playing the roles of the driver and guard, while the Special Ops team rode in the back. Jim felt a sudden stab of resentment that he wasn't in the cab of that armored truck. He quickly suppressed the thought. Get over it, he told himself. All he could do now was wait and listen – and hope their plan worked.

The radio crackled again. "Detour sign comin' up," Tom reported. "We're goin' through." He left the channel open, and the listeners heard the revving of the truck's engine. A moment later, the sound of the engine changed subtly. It sounded to Jim as if the truck had stopped and was idling. Then he heard a scuffling sound and Tom's cryptic comment, "We're taking the bait." A few seconds later, the Special Ops team leader's shouted command of "Go! Go! Go!" came over the air, followed by the sounds of men running, then gunshots – too many to count. Then there was only silence.

After an interval which seemed interminable to the listeners in the van, Tom's voice came over the radio. "We got two subjects down – one DOA, one for the hospital – and a third subject in custody. No other casualties." Karen and Jim exhaled simultaneously. "The guy who's still standing is Frank McAllister," Tom added. "Marty and me are bringing him back to the precinct."

McAllister looked up as Karen and Jim entered the interview room an hour later. Jim stood next to the windows, rolling up his shirt sleeves, and Karen took a seat at the table opposite McAllister. He stared at Jim for a moment, then muttered, "Son of a bitch." Suddenly, he launched himself out of his chair, toward Jim.

Karen screamed a warning, "Jim!" She tried to grab McAllister's arm as he passed her, but he eluded her.

"You son of a bitch!" McAllister yelled as he lunged toward Jim, "you killed my brother!"

Jim raised his arms to block McAllister's blow, then landed a left uppercut. Blood began flowing from McAllister's nose. Jim grabbed the front of McAllister's shirt, turned to his left, took a couple of steps forward, and slammed McAllister into the wall. Momentarily dazed, McAllister slumped to the floor. Still holding on, Jim went with him. He straddled McAllister's body, holding him down with his weight. His hands quickly found McAllister's face. He pressed his thumbs into McAllister's eyes. McAllister screamed, "Oh, my God! My eyes!"

McAllister's screams only seemed to incite Jim. "How d'you like this, huh?" he growled. Karen grabbed Jim's arm and tried to pull him away from McAllister, but he wrenched his arm from her grasp. He seemed to have more than his usual strength.

McAllister writhed on the floor but was unable to escape the unrelenting pressure on his eyes. "Son of a bitch! Get him off me!" he howled.

In the observation room, Fisk nodded to Marty and Tom. "Go," he said.

Marty and Tom dashed into the interview room. Together, Karen and Tom pulled Jim off of McAllister. Marty hauled McAllister to his feet and manhandled him into a chair. He rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly, then glared at Jim. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Karen, Marty, and Tom stared at Jim, who was leaning on the windowsill, his head down, breathing hard. Finally Karen asked, "You OK, Jim?"

He raised his head. "Yeah, I'm fine – now." He turned and walked out of the interview room, leaving Karen, Tom, and Marty looking at each other in stunned silence.


End file.
